PDA Report #10 2005

Lanquin, Guatemala

It's a travel truism that the most far flung corners on the planet (longest distance between two points is 20,000 km) will surprise you with an encounter from home. The more specific the reference, the greater the astonishment. Also true is that the anticipation of synchronicity anywhere (acausal coincindence) can dilute or short-circuit the phenemenon.

My surprises have been few and mild thusfar, although the truly unexpected did occur last week  (further down).

On my second day in Antigua I walked into the Sunshine Grill owned by Edgar Lopez. The decor is a pastiche of memorabilia that includes Canadian maple leafs, little Greek flags and deep blue and white Greek tourism posters saying "Enjoy our Great  Greek fare." The menu, equally ecclectic, boasts all-day breakfast (vast pancake/waffle/omellete platters) that puts most West End bruncherias to shame. Oh, the papas la casa!

Edgar was a Guatemalan immigrant in Toronto for fourteen years. He became a Canadian citizen and learned the business in Greek restaurants. He has a chef's degree from Humber College and a passion for cousine that just bubbles out of him. He married a Cuban woman, returned to Guatemala six months ago to make good.

Edgar is irrepressible. He wears a chef's smock, greets everyone with an allegro Hola!, Hola!, Hola! --- spoils you with his utmost personal attention.  He explains the specials, spices and sauces of the day, demands feedback. I call him El Greco. He, in turn, puts on Greek music each time I enter. This, despite my confessed passion for merengue! After all, I'm about as far from the restaurantuer/plate smashing/finger snapping aspects of my Greek heritage as one can get.

Then there was beautiful Larissa from Rotterdam, my former home town. I tweaked her synchronism (in a manner of speaking) by mentioning street names, bus routes and shopping centres, my Dutch miraculously fluent after some 35 years! I was relentless in my specificity but she, after some good laughs, bowed out in the end insisting she didn't come to Guatemala to hang out with Dutch people.

Last week it was Gabriola in my..um, face, albeit obliquely. I had travelled to a remote mountain village called Lanquin, dead center on the map, the navel of Guatemala. Lanquin is the base for excursions to a nature preserve called Semuc Champey, home to vast sub-aquatic caves and a unique lime stone bridge that spans a waterfall.

The ultra clear basin pools on the terraced bridge formation reflect a stunning spectrum of turquoise hues. It's a great swimming hole, the water surprisingly mild. Alas, the weather for the entire five days was cool, overcast and wet. The "Gabriola" connection came at El Retiro, the hostel I was staying at.

El Retiro comprises a cluster of thatched roofed cabinas situated on a bucollic hillside by a river. It's Shangri-la. The cabinas are built on pilings, have wrap-around decks with hammocks and misty mountain views. There are winding stone pathways, ponds, gardens, discreet terrace hideaways. El Retiro bills itself as "eco-friendly" and lo and behold it's got composting toilets too!

Each unit is lovingly appointed with mosaic tiled sinks and floors and art on the walls. All modesty aside, I dare say El Retiro is iWalden writ large. Four years in the making, it's run by a Brit and Dutchman, Matt and Thomas.

I learn that Lanquin's septic system is bust and unfortunately for El Retiro the stinking mess is just upstream. Ironically, El Retiro is having its own problems with grey water disposal. And there I was bemusedly revisiting my grand theme of 2005: septic effluvia.

Having the owners' rapt attention, (nothing like the stench of sewage to instill motivation) I duly redesign El Retiro's septic system on a paper napkin. Then launch into a tirade expounding on the need for secondary treatment for the composting poop. Amatuers, I tell you!

I came to the area with Monica, owner of Antiqua's Jungle Party hostel (yah, the name does set the imagination awhirl, doesn't it?). Along came Darrin, her prospective business partner. Darrin's a tatooed, pony-tailed self-exiled Brit in his early forties. He wears T-shirts with slogans such as "Real Men Eat Pussy."

Monica, 32, is an architect originally from El Salvador. She's one gutsy, sharp business cookie and politically astute. When things soured in El Salvador she closed her firm, moved to Antigua and started Jungle Party. She's looking for land around Lanquin to build Jungle Party ll. She knows El Retiro will be one hell of an act to follow, but remains resolute. She's absolutely fascinated with my composting experience. Takes for granted I'll join the team as Jungle Party's "disposal engineer."

I cannot do justice here to the land, the insane bus rides, so-called roads and the indomitable indigenous Maya (cac-chi dialect) that live up and down the jungle covered, terrifying canyons. A land so beautiful, yet so rugged and remote it defies the imagination that it's not only habitable, but cultivated too. It's rich in cardomon, coffee and cocoa. Monica calls the latter chocolate trees.  
    
As this is ostensibly a "PDA" report, a word about Baby Ipaq. It has performed heroically thusfar. Its robust little speaker filling and thrilling entire dorm rooms with selections from my mp3 collection.

One night there was a power outage in Lanquin. The three of us are stuck on the village outskirts in pitch black. iPaq's brilliant screen comes to the rescue doubling as a fairly decent flashlight. Then Monica and Darrin whip out their cell phones, as if to trump me, and begin playing their ring-tone-loonie-tunes. It's  uproarious -- us dancing along the steep cobbled stone road waving our high-tech luminaires. We pretend we're a moving discotheque. Then Baby Ipaq kicks in with an mp3 Arabic Grooves. They concede no contest in seconds!